Old Acquaintance
by Juni Cortez
Summary: [Roger Dodger] "No matter how he looked at it, Roger saw the evening ending in typical train wreck fashion and, contrary to popular opinion, even train wrecks could lose their novelty if they occurred on a regular basis." Roger learns to say goodbye.
1. Incidence

A/N: I doubt many people have seen Roger Dodger. The budget for the film was probably so low that they'd have trouble scraping together enough to hire a lawyer to sue me for this. Nevertheless, the film is wonderful and highly recommended to those of the legal age. If good dialogue, wonderful acting, and hand-held cameras are your thing, go see it! 

On a more relevant note, this doesn't really require any knowledge of the movie. I'd greatly appreciate any reviews, and in the unlikely instance that someone would like to arrange for some mutual beta-ing, I'm game. Oh, and there are two chapters. I uploaded them at the same time because I'm weird.

Old Acquaintance

            New Year's Eve wasn't the only night when people measured the evening's success by how drunk they were at the end of it: it was just the only night they admitted to doing so. And by those standards, tonight was quite a triumph. It was a six-figure salary, a sleek BMW, a spacious, tastefully furnished house in Italy for winter getaways…yes, Roger was drunk. So drunk he'd almost said that aloud, or so lazily inebriated that he hadn't. It was a good observation: witty, self-deprecating, insightful without being searching or revealing. 

            "Perish the thought," he shuddered. He sipped his scotch, a ridiculous gesture in light of the exorbitant amount he'd poured in the glass. He had a vague notion of champagne on New Year's, a nagging sentiment still dogging him after years of office parties. The scotch, however, slid down his throat with a seasoned dancer's ease and grace. Roger wasn't a man who enjoyed familiarity, this being the one exception. A man's drink, calm and elegant, eloquent, almost, in a way he himself could never be. The literal sense.

            The doorbell rang, his date, what should have been anything but the jarring interruption it was. The beginning, that had always been the best part. The hook, the Big Lie. It was advertising. You met a woman, you summed her up, you found a need, you played the man who satisfied that need. Then the laws of economics wormed their way into it: supply and demand, law of diminished returns, whatever. The average commercial lasts only two minutes, with good reason. Relationships, though, they limped along, not ending with a clean cut or dissolve or fade. At least not anymore. Self-righteous anger, barbed accusation, the cold, violent physicality of a slap as the parting touch. Roger could talk anyone into anything. He just never seemed able to talk himself out anymore.

            The doorbell rang again. As he was hastily straightening his tie, Roger's jacket sleeve caught on the half empty (half full?) bottle of scotch, sending it tumbling to the floor. A faint frown flickered across his face, then abolishing any hint of expression, Roger carefully and deliberately ground the shards of glass into the rug with his shoe. He returned his attention to the tie.

            "Be right there," he muttered at the door.

            An image ambushed him as he neared the threshold, a haggard, hard face with eyes that couldn't seem to meet the mirror, couldn't bear to confront even that shallow truth. He remembered Nick's offhand mention of the bottle of scotch Susan kept hidden in the laundry basket, one of the things he'd hated about her, and wondered how he'd let this casual hypocrisy catch him unawares. He sneered at his reflection, glare perfectly in tune with the rest of his appearance. He held the gaze as long as he could, until he realized his hand had flown to his left breast pocket, until he felt the gentle red silk of her scarf between his fingers. He scowled and spun around, swinging the door open easily. 

            "Sorry to keep you waiting," he greeted, trying his best to look guilty or at least apologetic. Lacking experience with either of the two emotions, it was a tough sale. After a couple moments of condemning silence, he tried another tack. "Love your dress," he murmured. 

            She chuckled dryly, letting the cold façade slip for a mere second before regaining her composure. "I'm here to pick up my things."

            Roger raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?" This time he felt confident enough to pull her to him and whisper in her ear. "I'm afraid you must have the wrong apartment. This is 52. Try 54; I always hear strange things going on next door."

            This time she laughed, genuine, natural laughter that seemed to _gush_—the only way he could describe it, despite the word's constant misapplication to old ladies commenting on one another's hats. He kissed her.

            She pulled back. "You smell like you've practically been bathing in scotch."

            It was his turn to laugh, although it ended up as more of an inner flinch accompanied by a snort, by no means a pleasant sound. "Well, that would be one of the side effects of practically bathing in scotch."

            She shot him a disparaging look. "We talked about this before. I don't care if you drink, but do it on your own time, not when you want to go out." She gave a cursory glance around his apartment, noted with bitter satisfaction the glass next to his favorite chair, whirled to leave. 

            He watched dispassionately as she threw open the door. In the hallway she hesitated, her back to him still, and something inside him kicked into high gear. "Genevieve," he entreated in a low, soothing voice, as though he were calming someone irrationally angry. "Gen, turn around."

            The muscles in her back tensed and he continued, not taking his eyes off her. "It is New Year's Eve. It is _the night_ for going out and getting drunk. Do you know why? Because it is the one night of the year when you don't have to worry about what will happen the next day. It's the last night, in a manner of speaking." He walked to her, slowly, as stealthily as he could given the circumstances. He was acutely aware of the sound made with each step. When he'd reached her, he placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling them slump beneath even his most delicate touch, and slowly turned her around. "Gen, we can do whatever we want tonight because tomorrow everything begins anew."

            He stood there, barely touching her, fully prepared for some sort of blow, whether physical or verbal. He winced as her expression began to change and, impossibly, a smile formed on her lips. 

            "You're right," she said at length, mouth arcing into a speculative grin.

            Roger felt a dark joy at the words, more powerful than all the scotch he'd had that night, more potent than any drug he'd ever tried. The thrill of selling something unnecessary, something useless. And he was prepared to reap the benefits. "What would you like to do?"

            "Remember that party I told you about?"

            He feigned disinterest. "Vaguely. At the house of some friend of yours…June?"

            She humored him. "Joyce."

            His eyes widened and he began to cough violently at the name, all the while attempting to discern whether this was a deliberate trap or just the fickle finger of fate flipping him the bird once more. 

            "You know her?" Genevieve asked, innocently enough.

            "No, no," he protested hurriedly. Realizing how preposterous the denial sounded, he backpedaled as much as circumstances would permit. "Well, maybe. Yes, in a manner of speaking."

            She laughed aloud.

            "What?"  
            She gave him an affectionate pat on the back. "I've known you for six months and I've never seen you this evasive."

            "Are you kidding? I'm always this evasive."

            She held up her hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry. Flustered, I think I meant to say." She marveled at him. "Everything is always about words with you."

            "It's my job." He grinned nervously and shrugged. "Let's go."

            She nodded, then gave him a quick once-over. "Your tie needs to be straightened."

            He intercepted her hands, already en route to his neck, with a defensive shove. As soon as he'd done it, he cursed himself for the instinctive action. "It's fine. Not like anyone's going to be staring at my tie."

            Genevieve rolled her eyes at him. He always fluctuated between loving and hating those damnable eyes. Inscrutable as a rule, they had this look…when she looked at him, at least…like he was leading her to a surprise party she'd known about forever but was acting like she hadn't to avoid hurting his feelings. More bluntly, she could see through all his bullshit. Sometimes when she turned the hazel polygraph on him he felt the urge to just turn away. That or kiss her. Both impulses were irritably hard to resist, but she never seemed to notice.

            "Are you coming?" Her voice rang down the hall, bringing him out of his drunken ruminations. Him, daydreaming about a part of a woman that was decidedly not erogenous. He caught that thought before it could continue. The most dangerous of people, after all, was the guy who believed his own bullshit.

            He hurried down the hall to catch up with his date. 


	2. Reflection

Stress management was hardly the type of thing Roger went in for, or needed for that matter, but by the time they got to Joyce's building (God he hoped she had a new doorman) he'd gone through everything short of Nick's "red triangle" technique: breathing exercises, meditation, visualization. Got a little distracted on the visualization, now that he thought about it. Realistically speaking, though, it was a New Year's party. Easy enough to evade Joyce, especially at one of her world-famous gatherings. Easy enough. No need for stress, and certainly no reason for his palms to be uncomfortably moist and his heart to be beating unreasonably fast. As they were, he admitted.

            The doorman nodded cordially as Genevieve guided them into the apartment complex. Roger barely bit back a caustic remark at the guy's apparent attitude transplant, but conditions being what they were, forced his brain to persevere over his mouth. For once. 

            "How do you know Joyce?" he asked Gen, carefully keeping his tone in check. 

            "Oh, she's an old friend," Gen replied with convincing vagueness. "Should I even ask how you know her?"

            She turned those eyes on him, and suddenly he longed for the company of the doorman. "She's my," he cleared his throat unnecessarily, "former employer."

            Gen grinned maliciously. "I see."

            He felt tired, drained, wondered if he could be sobering up only forty minutes later. "What's the number?" he asked, well aware they were standing right outside her door. 

            In response she rapped on the door. A moment later, a woman who was not Joyce answered it. No, Roger corrected himself. She was a tall blonde in a revealing red dress. This night would _not_ mark the return to his habit of classifying woman as either Joyce or not Joyce.

            Genevieve looked slightly nonplussed, but the blonde welcomed them in with the cheerful, distracted manner of those who have attained true oblivion through alcohol. In fact, Roger was fairly sure he could convince the woman they knew each other in a matter of minutes and was keen to start a conversation, but Gen clearly wasn't in the mood. He ditched her in favor of the bar, certain she wouldn't mind, and this time settled for the respectability of champagne.

            Clutching the glass, his tenuous link to the world of the sane, he scanned the party for any familiar faces. Most of the guests reminded him of Nick. Young, innocent, a little too enthusiastic. People like that had always inspired revulsion in Roger, but now he'd reached the stage where he wondered who exactly the revulsion was directed at.

            He took a nice long gulp of champagne and glanced around for the absent Gen. She'd probably slipped away to talk with Joyce. That particular conversation was bound to be an interesting one. "Interesting," of course, did not mean he wanted to be within a 50 mile radius of wherever it was taking place. No matter how he looked at it, Roger saw the evening ending in typical train wreck fashion and despite popular belief, even train wrecks could lose their novelty if they occurred on a regular basis. Just thinking about it made his head hurt. Something was decidedly wrong when the headache came before the drunken stupor.

            Discarding the champagne for his old standby, scotch, Roger drifted from group to group, eventually attaching himself to the group whose conversation sounded the most promising. After half an hour of nothing but forced laughter he quietly excused himself.

            "So much for finely-honed instinct." He resumed the half-hearted search for Gen, keeping an eye open for Joyce as well.

            He almost missed Gen, and in the end it was the years of vigorous visual training that detected something slightly off about the dancing couple. Maybe it was the way they moved, impervious to anyone and anything around them, a true couple. More likely, it was just the fact that it was Gen dancing with someone else. And, absurdly, her dancing seemed to him more intimate than anything he'd ever shared with her.

            He wanted to leave. No, not leave. He wanted to go home. He wanted what he'd had at the beginning of the night: a nice comfy chair and a bottle of scotch. He wanted to be at his place, methodically getting plastered. He wanted to wake up in the same disheveled clothes with little or no memory of the night before. He sighed. For once, he just didn't want to worry about the name of the woman at his side the next morning.

            The betrayal didn't alarm him as much as his reaction to it.

            Roger walked directly to the door, roughly disregarding anyone in his path. He wondered whether or not there were any cabs in service on New Year's and was leaning towards the affirmative when a final obstruction appeared.

            He stopped. He wasn't frightened when he saw her; the trembling started as, under he strong gaze, his feet slowed and then simply refused to move, despite adamant metal urgings. Cursing involuntary actions and the choice moments at which they reared their ugly heads, Roger raised his eyes to meet Joyce's.

            This meant that despite his excellent peripheral vision, he was completely off-guard when the slap came. 

            It was a relief, in truth, a harsh, stinging relief, because for once Roger could say to himself, "I was right" and genuinely mean it. He smiled openly, didn't make any move to assess the damage.

            "Joyce, you're blocking the door." Taunting her to hit him again.

            "What are you doing?" Her stare was pure ice, her stance just as frigid. Some women (well, nearly all) Roger found more attractive when they were angry. It intensified everything, added one kind of passion, at least.

            Joyce's subzero loathing, though, that just reminded him of what he'd had, how she'd been before.

            "Trying to leave."

            She didn't reply, just nodded and slid aside with poise that made him ache. Maybe it was that uncomfortable sensation that compelled him to explain.

            "Look, I came here with a friend. I wasn't trying to pull anything. I didn't sneak in to see you. It was pure—"

            "Don't," she cut in harshly. "Don't try to talk your way out. I don't want to know anything—not who you came with or how you got in. Leave, and please, for once, do it silently and with a shred of dignity."

            Roger felt a spurt of shame at the words, a brief inner pang before he could deflect them, consign the memories of his departure from Joyce, from the office, to a thick file in the back of his mind. The one labeled "topics not suitable for conversation—polite or otherwise."

            "Are you telling me to 'take it like a man'?" he sputtered incredulously.

            "Six months later?" She laughed, and it hurt because it was light and amused. More than that, it was knowing. 

            And Roger couldn't protest. There was nothing left for them, if there had been anything in the first place. He was glib and witty and excelled at throwaway comments, but that was what made a great advertiser. Not a great man.

            Dear Lord, had he just had that thought?

            "I'm sorry," he said before he could think about the words. Then he slipped behind her to the door. A subtler exit, this time, but not dignified or meaningful. Never.

            He turned around—for just one glance, he told himself, one glimpse of her standing stock still with the crowd milling around her. Her silence afloat in their tide of words.

            He thought she might have whispered, "Too late."

            As if on cue, a champagne-saturated chorus began to belt out Auld Lang Syne, off-key notes carrying like rumors across the room.

            And, mind whirling at the energy and the noise, vision blurred from exhaustion and scotch, with the acute desperation of someone borrowing time on bad credit, Roger kissed Joyce.

            As people around them shouted "Happy New Year" and confetti dotted the air, fluttering to the floor, Roger slowly stepped back, away. He didn't seek out Gen. The thought didn't even occur to him. His eyes never wavered from Joyce, from the lost or broken part of him her expression mirrored.

            Around the lump in his throat, he knew exactly what to say.

            "That was the way it should have ended."

            The kiss had been utterly devoid of passion.


End file.
